


To His Thoughts

by ASCENSIONS



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26015890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASCENSIONS/pseuds/ASCENSIONS
Summary: As The Friends of the ABC inflate their courage and expand their resources, Grantaire considers himself the runt of the group. It is another night for his demons to nestle in his mind. One of these devils offer an escape from his abysmal self-worth: abandon the group. Grantaire comes to a decision with the help of alcohol and a friend.
Relationships: Grantaire & Les Amis de l'ABC
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	To His Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> This is a previously unpublished piece from 2015. Some edits were made, but most of the original structure was kept untouched.
> 
> The relationships between Grantaire and each Friends’s member are headcanons expanded from canon.
> 
> The quotation at the start is from Kevin Latimer’s poem, “Last Dispatch From My Dying Mouth,” with the sample as followed: “It all starts as a slow build: I am a man living in a body that wants me dead.”

_I am a man living in a body that wants me dead._

* * *

In the clear summer night, the wind separated and swept through the alleys of France. With clouds disappearing from sight around Rue Cochin, they entered Grantaire’s mind and transformed into haunting ideas. Each tragic inkling carried their weight in gold. As the thoughts bred, sleep eluded him.

The flat was empty and lonely, much like him. The raven-haired man sighed as he stared at the ceiling. His dull blue eyes flickered from one spot to another, engulfing the bland canvas above him. With a submissive sigh, the man tossed over to his side with the bed creaking as his body moved. The noise sent some thoughts fleeing, but the adamant ones remained. They were useless, trivial concepts that kept him awake at the dead of night. He was no stranger to this insomnia, for it always happened. Night after night, they plagued his mind to steal a good night’s rest.

The first concept that occupied his mind was his worth to the Friends of the ABC. Monstrous ideas consumed his self-worth as he remembered the times in which the leader of the group discredited and reproached him. Most, if not all, of the students who formed the Friends of the ABC tolerated Grantaire, but this one man was a fragment of the skeptic’s tendency for self-deprecation.

“ _Mon Dieu,_ ” Grantaire hissed, repulsion soaked in his words. He questioned himself why he bothered to attend the meetings in Café Musain. He didn’t attend to be ridiculed by Apollo reincarnated! What reason was he there for? The question went unanswered when a moment of silence revealed a new vision: how easy it was to leave the Friends of the ABC. How entertaining. How simple it was for him to leave the group without a word. It was all in his control. He could vanish from their lives and make himself a ghost, only living in their memories.

The happy diversion skittered away when other questions came up. Would people miss him? Joly and Lesgle, his drinking friends, would they wonder where he would be if he missed a few gatherings? Would Courfeyrac look for him after a meeting? Would Enjolras show any concern? The answer, he supposed, was no. The content Joly and the unlucky Lesgle have each other, not to mention their shared mistress! There was no shred of a doubt that they would find another friend to drink with. Courfeyrac would assume that he was having an off-day or he didn’t wake early enough to participate in the conference. As for Enjolras, Grantaire was sure that the blond wouldn't take notice of his disappearance at all.

Thoughts of the other members remained, cluttering his mind. If Grantaire stayed with the group, he would witness the fall of his brethren. Likely, he would see their bodies drop one by one rather than all at once. Grantaire particularly didn’t care about dying; he didn’t fear it, yet he didn’t welcome it either. But what about the rest of his acquaintances? What of them?

Jean Prouvaire, the youngest recruit, often spent his days and nights writing poetry or studying the Middle Ages. Grantaire enjoyed Prouvaire’s presence, particularly whenever the Romantic was feeling forlorn. The two would end up talking, sharing stories, and cheering each other up. It would be a shame to see Prouvaire die at such an age, for his words brought Grantaire a sense of peace.

Combeferre, the second-in-command, was a different case. Grantaire knew him to be a predictable and philosophical man. He was an interesting person, and Grantaire was intrigued to hear whatever words came from the guide’s mouth. To see Combeferre die in battle would be a tragic loss, and the skeptic had a feeling that Combeferre wasn’t prepared to die.

Feuilly, not a student but a man of work, was one of the older members. Feuilly was an enigma, but he was worth getting to know. He would entertain Grantaire by telling the younger lad about what he did for a living and, miraculously, Grantaire found interest in fan making. Feuilly lived a full life, Grantaire deemed true, but it would hurt him if Feuilly were to leave the Earth.

Bahorel, a true idler, would probably welcome death. Much like Grantaire, Bahorel wasn’t afraid of dying. Unlike Grantaire, the notorious fighter was always up for a fist fight or two. Bahorel attracted bad company, and perhaps Grantaire was a part of that. If there was one thing of pure certainty, it was that Bahorel feared nothing. Dying was just another stage of life.

Joly, the malade imaginaire, was one to cheer Grantaire up whenever the latter felt like ruining himself to oblivion. Sometimes it even included drinking. Since Joly was a medical student, the cynic considered him to be comfortable with death, for there was so much that a medical student could experience before his time to expire came. To put it short: Grantaire would miss him dearly.

Courfeyrac, the ladies’ man, was a loyal extrovert. He was warm and lovable. Grantaire had half the mind to believe that nobody could despise Courfeyrac. If the center were to extinguish, the world would take a bitter turn for the worse. The world would never know how to feel intact again.

Lesgle, the oldest member of the group, was also another person Grantaire had the opportunity to befriend. Just as witty as Grantaire was, the two would have conversations to test each other’s sarcastic humor. As someone who cared about the drunkard, Lesgle’s death hurt him worse than a severe hangover.

Enjolras, the undeniable chief, maintained a clear image. He was what Grantaire wanted to be, whether the man would proclaim it or not, and it aggravated him knowing that he could never be that. Grantaire was sure that Enjolras would never see old age, for the young boy kept contemplating plans that would lead to his death in a fell swoop. Nevertheless, Enjolras’s demise would affect him the most.

Picturing each of his friends’ deaths turned out to be something he’d rather not think of but couldn’t escape. They’d be shot multiple times or punctured with a sharp bayonet. Perhaps they’d die on the spot from a cannon. At least it would be quick. Grantaire’s fear grew as other inklings floated around. He hoped that he wouldn’t witness any of their heads bowed, eyes shut, or limbs torn. He hoped that he would be the first to die.

Whatever deaths his comrades would meet, the fall of his companions would be a tragedy. Historic? Probably not. Most of them were mere schoolboys with a collective ambition in changing the world. Not all groups make it into history. They would all be ghosts, savored in the minds of those who knew them.

Sitting upright on the mattress, Grantaire rose and paced out of the bedroom. His bare feet treaded on the loud floorboards until he reached a small room. A poor excuse of a kitchen. A shabby table sat in the center of the room, which was accompanied by a single chair. On the table sat a bowl of fresh fruits, four bottles of wine, and a dimly lit wick lamp.

The man riddled with troubles sought salvation in a wine bottle, taking the lukewarm item in a hand and opening it with the other. A whiff of the wine’s scent revived his good intentions and a swig later, the unswerving follower of Dionysus cleansed the polluted ideas that latched onto him. Grantaire claimed a seat and ran his thumb over the smooth texture of the bottle’s neck. His gaze flickered from the fruits to the flame. His once muted eyes shone with the help of the fire, his features growing sharp as shadows formed on his face.

As he consumed the first bottle of wine, his hazardous thoughts were almost out of reach. No longer plagued by worry, this foolish Pylades placed the bottle to the side only to claim another. His vision blurred as he reached the end of his second helping. His body became numb and his mind was unaware of the passage of time. The stars watched him through a window, clustering together to whisper secrets to one another.

The vexing thoughts that stole him from sleep were now gone, scattering from his head. Instead, they donned a different form; the clouds that graced the night sky. Soon enough, the state of drunkenness held him by the throat. The man succumbed to his sin, his head drooped to the side and a loose grip onto the empty glass.

* * *

Well into the afternoon of a new day, Grantaire stirred awake on the wooden floor of the kitchen. He sat and rubbed his eyes, shielding his face from the sun’s warm rays. “Shit,” he mumbled under his breath. Legs wobbling, Grantaire managed to stand up to his full height. The empty bottles of wine were toppled, one teetering off the edge of the table, and the candle was extinguished. He reached to take the bottle that was hanging over the edge and set it upright in the center.

A minute or so later, the hungover man grew accustomed to the light that filled the kitchen. Grantaire heard a set of knocks to the main door just as his feet pointed back to the bedroom. His feet took a different course, and he made his way to the door.

“Bahorel,” Grantaire expelled, his eyes widening with astonishment, “you are—”

“Here?” his friend finished off, eyeing the drunkard. “You missed the meeting.” The comment was laced with poison. Bahorel sneered as he saw Grantaire’s face twist in dissatisfaction. “That’s not why I’m here,” Bahorel added, folding his robust arms over his chest. “Would you like to join me for lunch?”

It took a moment for Grantaire to process the words. He opened his mouth, prepared to answer, but no words came out; a nod simply followed. He heared Bahorel mention Grantaire’s current attire, suggesting that he should change. The edges of Grantaire’s lips curled up to form a gentle smile, delivering a once-over to his fellow comrade. Bahorel donned a black three-piece suit composed of a waistcoat, tailcoat, and breeches. A scarlet cravat hugs Bahorel’s neck, and his dark brown boots were free from stains. “Who did you take this from, my dear friend? You look exemplary!” the skeptic cried out.

“A friend lent it to me,” Bahorel responded in quick haste. He tutted. It was soft, almost affectionate. The sound reflected Grantaire’s easy smile. “Get dressed, R. It is a fine day to fill our stomachs to the brim and chatter with wandering citizens.”

Grantaire spilled out a laugh, his smile increasing in size. Still under the spell of inebriation, he patted Bahorel’s arm and invited him in with a gesture of his hand. The door shut behind Bahorel, and Grantaire made his way to the bedroom. As he closed the door, Grantaire caught a fleeting thought of last night’s events.

His smile remained as he pondered about his decision to leave the Friends of the ABC. Today wasn’t that day. Tomorrow wouldn’t be that day nor would it be sometime next week. Not even the following month. The next year? Likely not. Perhaps he would never leave. Perhaps he would stay until the very end to experience his passing. He’d have to see where fate would lead him. For now, however, he expected to have lunch with a good friend.


End file.
